


i'll tell you about all the times i've smiled because of you

by cryptidkidprem



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (does it count as a fix-it if the thing i'm fixing doesn't exist yet), Blindness, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Moving In Together, Nightmares, Recovery, accompanied by some canon typical low self-worth issues, canon atypical healthy discussions of feelings, finally some healthy goddamn coping mechanisms, sometimes gouging your eyes out is something that can actually be so healing and romantic :), written mostly pre-s5 trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidkidprem/pseuds/cryptidkidprem
Summary: Martin thinks about their shoes, sitting beside each other on the floor by the bed. Thinks of the way Jon wears Martin’s cardigans more often than he wears his own, the way Martin’s started keeping elastics around his wrist because Jon always forgets his own when they go out.He thinks about all the gentle touches and fussing over each other they’ve done, and how much is still to come over the next… however long Jon will have him.They have a long way to go, an entire life to build out of the wreckage Jonah Magnus and Peter Lukas left them, but laying together in a comfortable, sleepy quiet, Martin thinks they’ve got a good start going.Or, Jon quits the Institute, saves the world, and it turns out to be exactly what he needs in order to heal and start moving forward towards building a life with Martin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 91
Kudos: 639





	i'll tell you about all the times i've smiled because of you

**Author's Note:**

> what's up who's coping with the looming threat of s5? not me, personally. this was supposed to be like a quick 'jon blinds himself to save the world' fic and turned into an 13k Recovery and happy ending fic with a side of eye gouging as a remedy to the inevitable tragedy we're about to witness with our own human ears. :-)
> 
> just a heads up, there's a scene that's kinda bloody. martin has a nightmare abt jon's injury and there's a non-graphic description of it that involves a lot of blood. it's. very short. like. a few paragraphs, but if that's not your thing, it starts with the line "martin doesn't only dream about the lonely" and ends when jon says "martin." so it's easy af to skip.
> 
> also so help me god if anyone imagines jon or martin as cis while reading this you're not valid and also you're wrong. martin and jon are t4t and literally nothing else makes sense.

It takes two months (three weeks in the safehouse, three in the ruined world, and two more in the hospital for Jon to recuperate) before Martin and Jon to find their way back to London.

It’s almost unnerving, how little things have changed in that time. With the eyes in the sky shut for good, without any inky shadows waiting to swallow you whole, the relentless static and swirling fog gone, the city looks… nearly exactly as they left it, like nothing happened.

There are some signs, sure, but driving back into the city Martin can almost make himself imagine the world didn’t recently end and then restart.

Things’ve changed. Of course they have; the whole world went through an almost unimaginable trauma. Nothing’s going to just magically be exactly as it was before. But still, turning down familiar streets and looking up at familiar buildings, it’s like… slipping into an old sweater you’ve been keeping at the back of your closet and only just remembered you own. A little off, maybe ill-fitting and cold, but distinctly familiar.

From the driver’s seat, Martin steals a glance at Jon sitting beside him.

He’s slumped against the door, chin in his hand, turned towards the window even though Martin knows he can’t see anything through it. He’s still got his bandages on; Martin’s not sure when they should come off, really, and Jon’s been… a bit squeamish about it. (He’ll have to remind Jon to see a doctor as soon as he can. Just in case. Because he’s still, at his core, a worrier.)

“Almost there,” Martin tells him.

Jon hums, nodding vaguely. He’s exhausted, still. Worn out from sitting in a car all day and from just trying to relearn how to be a person again. Martin remembers the feeling from those first few days after the Lonely.

Martin turns back to the road. He stops at a crosswalk to let a handful of people standing at the curb cross before going on. The drive to his building is almost muscle memory. It’s easy to just take the same turns, get stuck in the same traffic like he’s just coming home from another day at work.

Only… they’ve been gone for weeks, now, and Martin’s not entirely sure what he’ll be coming home too.

Will his flat even still be there? Even if it survived the _entities_ , this is still London, and it’s entirely possible his landlord decided to just throw his things out when a rent check didn’t come in for two months.

Will he even care if it’s gone? It’s never quite… been any kind of proper home for Martin. Especially after Prentiss and the worms, it mostly just felt like the place he went back to because there really wasn’t anything else to do, anywhere else for him to go.

(There still isn’t, really. Jon doesn’t have a flat of his own anymore. Apparently, he hasn’t since he woke up from his coma. Before Scotland, he’d just been living in the Archives, pilfering clothes from the others, keeping his toothbrush in his desk, sleeping on the same cot Martin slept on years ago.

And Martin… Martin hadn’t even noticed. He’d been so caught up in the Lonely, so busy trying to suffocate his own heart, he hadn’t even given it much thought.)

It should bother him, the possibility that everything he owns, the place he’s lived for half a decade, might be gone.

And it does, in a way.

Even if he’s… still wrestling with the things that made him so susceptible to the Lonely, what matters now is that he and Jon have somewhere to go. The things he needs to worry about are very _human_. Right now they really just need a place to sleep and shower and eat and charge their phones. It’s a bit comforting, weirdly enough.

Martin turns one last corner, and there it is. The building’s still there, anyway, waiting for them at the end of the block.

Martin has to park a couple of streets over. Parking’s just as sparse as ever, the streets just as crowded. For once it feels like a relief.

He turns off the car, taps his fingertips on the wheel. “Well,” he says, trying for a smile, “here we are.”

“Oh.” Jon straights up. “Right.”

He fumbles for the door handle, pulls himself unsteadily out of the car. The ride from Scotland has been a long one, and Martin feels plenty of his own aches as he steps out into the chilly London air.

He grabs their bags from the backseat, locks up, and walks around to meet Jon on the sidewalk.

Jon doesn’t say anything, but he takes his backpack and the hand Martin offers him and clutches it like a lifeline, keeping their fingers locked tightly together all the way up to Martin’s flat on the fourth floor.

The elevator ride is mostly silent, and Martin takes a moment at the door, fumbling with his keys. He hasn’t had to get into the flat for a while, it takes him a moment to find the right key, but when he does, it clicks right into place.

It’s dark inside, and dusty enough to make Martin’s nose itch, but… it’s all still there, waiting for them, down to the stack of napkins from the Indian takeout he and Jon had shared the night before they left for Scotland.

Martin flips the lights on, and the living room goes from gray and muted to buttery yellow-white, the bulb flickering for just a second before chasing the shadows away.

Martin sets his duffle bag down on the floor, takes Jon’s backpack from him and does the same.

Jon’s still holding onto him like a tether. Just like that night they left the Lonely, only this time it’s Martin’s turn to anchor Jon.

Martin gives his hand a little squeeze. “You alright?” He asks nervously.

“Fine,” Jon answers, although he hasn’t made a move to step out of the doorway yet. He hasn’t been sleeping well, Martin knows. Didn’t sleep at all in the car today.

“You should get some rest,” Martin suggests.

“Mm,” Jon responds vaguely.

“Really,” Martin says. He’s trying to be gentle about it, but he hasn’t been able to stop worrying since the day he left Jon alone to read that _statement_ , and Jon’s never been the best at caring for himself, even before he was forced into acting as a conduit for apocalyptic forces of fear and lost his sight. “We’re safe here,” he tries, “and it’s been a long drive.”

“I’m not really tired,” Jon tries, despite the exhaustion Martin can read in every angle of his body.

Martin bites back a sigh. “Alright, then… just get some rest anyway, so I’ll stop worrying?”

With that, Jon softens, all those exhausted angles easing. “Fine.”

Martin smiles. He squeezes Jon’s hand again, and this time, Jon squeezes back.

Jon lets Martin gently herd him back to the bedroom, waits patiently for him while he strips the bed clean and brings some new sheets from the closet.

Jon toes off his shoes, unwinds his scarf, strips his jacket off while Martin gets the bed made up. Martin leaves his own shoes next to Jon, and when he finally looks back up at him, Jon is sitting cross-legged on the bed, running his fingers over the quilt absently.

Martin could watch the way his fingers move forever; thin and scarred, nails neat and short, always in some kind of motion. He’s been looking at them a great deal over the past few years. (Been looking at _Jon_ a great deal over the past few years, really.)

Martin swallows, and sits on the mattress in front of Jon. It still dips with a familiar squeak; exactly as it was before he left save for the fact that he is not alone here anymore, which… kind of makes it completely new, really.

Jon holds one of his hands out, tentatively, and Martin catches it quickly, holding it between both of his.

“Comfy enough?”

Jon nods. “Yes, actually.” His thumb skims over Martin’s knuckles. “Will you— Um. Are you staying?”

“Yeah,” Martin says. He really has been driving a lot today, and he aches from sitting in a cramped car. At least he had the foresight not to wear a binder today. All this time in the car would’ve been suffocating him by now. “Not much to unpack or anything. We can worry about all that tomorrow.”

And that does seem to relax Jon. Actually, properly relax him. His shoulders slump, and the lines of his face smooth out.

“Oh. Well. In that case.”

“In that case,” Martin echos, “budge over a bit, would you?”

And this earns him a smile, which makes a great deal of worry melt away, leaving Martin light and tired and relieved.

They settle back against the pillows, facing each other and lying close enough to share oxygen. Jon pulls the quilt up over both of them, thick and heavy, smoothes it over Martin’s shoulders with those meticulous fingers of his.

Despite his earlier protests, Jon settling into exhaustion in a matter of minutes. He sighs, letting all his breath out in one, long, sleepy exhale.

“Still smells like you,” Jon mumbles.

Martin tucks a piece of hair behind Jon’s ear, brushes his cheek with his fingertips. “Does it?”

Jon nods, mussing his hair against the pillow. “Mhmm.”

“Is that good?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jon answers.

Martin feels like he might overflow with affection. “If you say so,” he murmurs gently, pressing a feather-light kiss to the bridge of Jon’s nose.

Jon covers Martin’s hand with his own. “I do.”

Martin thinks about their shoes, sitting beside each other on the floor by the bed. Thinks of the way Jon wears Martin’s cardigans more often than he wears his own, the way Martin’s started keeping elastics around his wrist because Jon always forgets his own when they go out.

He thinks about all the gentle touches and fussing over each other they’ve done, and how much is still to come over the next… however long Jon will have him.

They have a long way to go, an entire life to build out of the wreckage Jonah Magnus and Peter Lukas left them, but laying together in a comfortable, sleepy quiet, Martin thinks they’ve got a good start going.

—

It takes weeks after things settle before Jon’s able to sleep through the night.

At first he hardly sleeps it all, tossing, turning, gasping awake, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

Martin’s not sure what he sees in his nightmares anymore — is it like a phantom limb, a vestige of Beholding, punishing him for what he did? Or are they just… dreams? Run-of-the-mill nightmares, the kind that come about from a life of trauma and sadness and fear?

It calms, eventually.

Eventually he’s only waking once or twice a night, and then, three months, two weeks, and four days after the world stops ending, Martin falls asleep with Jon in his arms, and the next time he wakes, there’s sun streaming in around the curtains.

(He’d nearly panicked about it at the time. He can still remember — well, he hadn’t wanted Jon to go through with it, at first. He’d been against it. He’d begged, pleaded with Jon not to. He’d been afraid, _terrified_ , that at this point Beholding’s connection with Jon was too strong, that if he tried to sever it now, he might not… Might not survive it.

Maybe Martin was being selfish, wanting to keep Jon even if it cost the world, but the fog was so strong those three horrible weeks Eli— Jona— that absolute wanker they used to work for — had set all the Powers free on the earth that it was nearly impossible to resist the Lonely’s pull sometimes, and he didn’t think he’d survive it much longer if he lost Jon.

He remembers waking up without Jon there, to the sound of a _horrible_ scream, remembers finding Jon, bloody and crumpled. The fear he’d felt that night had been more intense than anything any Entity would ever be _capable_ of.

But Jon was still there in the bed beside Martin, still here with him, drooling a little on his pillow, fingers splayed out on Martin’s chest, so he’d settled, gone back to sleep)

Eventually it gets to the point where Jon’s only waking a few times a week. Martin has nightmares of his own that tend to get them up the other nights, and neither of them are heavy sleepers anymore. When one of them’s up, so’s the other.

Tonight, Martin is jerked out of sleep by frantic hands, reaching for him, and his name, choked off and terrified.

He opens his eyes to a dark room, blurry and almost ethereal. The alarm clock just looks like a red blur without his glasses, so he’s no idea what time it is. It doesn’t matter, though; in an instant he knows why he’s awake.

Jon is there, fumbling around for him in the dark, confused and scared.

“Jon,” Martin manages, pushing himself up and reaching out to snag Jon’s hand, pulling him closer.

The second there’s contact, Martin’s whole world fills with Jon. He’s there, pulling Martin close, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“Martin,” Jon breathes.

“Right here,” Martin assures him.

“It’s dark,” Jon says, in a tone of voice that leaves Martin suspecting he’s barely even conscious, just pulled up to the surface of sleep by the sheer panic of a bad dream.

“I know, love.” Martin runs a soothing hand up Jon’s spine, into his hair, anywhere he can reach. It’s all he can do, just keep assuring Jon of his own solidity, his own presence.

Jon responds in kind, fingers discovering and rediscovering every inch of Martin. “I didn’t know where you _were_.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. Not an apology; he’s prone to apologizing for things that aren’t his fault, but this isn’t that. He just wants Jon to know he’s sorry he was scared.

Jon slumps against him, hides his face against Martin’s neck, inhales sharply. “Couldn’t… find you,” he mumbles, exhaustion winning him over now that the fright has passed.

“I’m right here,” Martin promises him. “Whenever you need me.”

Jon lets his breath out slowly. “What if I always need you?”

“Then I’ll be here, always,” Martin tells him, easy as anything. As if he’d _ever_ want to be apart from Jon again.

“That simple, is it?” Jon murmurs.

Martin runs a hand through Jon’s hair, presses his lips to the crown of his head. “‘Course,” he says, “with you? no question.”

Jun lets his breath out slowly, his hold on Martin tightening, and before Martin knows it, he’s asleep again. The next time either of them wake, it’s morning. The rest of the night is peaceful.

—

On the first really proper day of spring, Martin’s got all the windows in the flat (their flat? Jon hasn’t got his own flat, and it certainly doesn’t feel like it’s just Martin’s, but it hasn’t quite felt like his for a few years now.) open wide.

Martin has always loved spring; it feels… Alive, and gentle. It softens the edges of the world, he’s always felt.

There’s even a breeze, and even though a city like London hasn’t exactly got the freshest air, it picks up the dust and brings the smell of sunlight and new growth into the room with it.

Jon finds Martin in the living room, one of Martin’s sweaters thrown on and a pair of hopelessly tangled earbuds in his hands (he’s taken to reading audio books lately).

Jon’s nose twitches, and his whole face scrunches up. “We should dust in here,” he comments.

“Tomorrow,” Martin says. He crosses the room to Jon, takes the headphones from him to detangle. “It’s too nice to do any work today.”

Jon tilts his head towards the sound of traffic and birdsong. “We’ll get bugs in here with all the windows open.”

Martin shrugs. “As long as they’re not worms, that’s fine by me.”

“Could let in _spiders_ ,” Jon grumbles, “and that is _not_ fine by me.”

“Oh, come on. They’re not out to get you anymore. No more Web, remember?”

“Even completely normal spiders are perfectly capable of being out to get me,” Jon argues.

Martin smiles. “They’re more scared of you than you are of them, Jon.”

“I promise you that is _not true_ ,” Jon tells him, with such conviction Martin can’t stop himself from laughing, a dizzy, happy sound that almost surprises himself. (He hasn’t been… It’s been so long since he’s felt well and truly care-free. It’s a strange thing, re-learning how to be happy.)

“Come on. You can’t even see them, Jon. You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t need to _see them_ for them to, to crawl on me, or bite me, or hide in my shoes, or—“

“Alright,” Martin acquiesces, “I get it. Promise, should any spiders find their way into my _fourth floor flat_ , I’ll take care of it.”

Jon relaxes. “Well. Fine, I suppose that’s alright then.”

Martin laughs again, quiet and breathless. “Oh, here,” he says, handing Jon’s freshly untangled headphones back to him.

Jon pulls the chord through his fingers, fiddles with the squishy rudder nubs, then balls the earbuds back up and stuffs them in his pocket.

Martin blinks. “Jon—”

“I don’t really feel like reading anymore,” Jon explains. “It’s nice out today, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Martin agrees. “Sun’s out. Nice breeze. We’ve got cute little birds chirping and everything.”

Jon nods slowly. “Right. So what if we… went out and enjoyed it?”

Caught completely off guard, all Martin can say is, “Oh?”

“I just mean,” Jon adds hastily, “Well. Have we ever gone out just to _go out_? Just to… have fun? Together? Not, not because we need supplies or groceries or a doctor or we’re meeting Basira or Melanie or something?” He takes a breath. “It just seems. I mean. We can now. We can, we can just… We can be like, like people.”

“Go out,” Martin repeats, sounding the words out carefully like they might vanish if he’s too blasé about it.

“Yes.” Jon nods. “We can just… Go into the city. Go to a park or a café or something.”

“So. Kind of like… a date,” Martin wonders aloud.

Jon sucks in a breath. He sets his jaw, stands a little straighter. “Yes. A date. I-if you want.”

A giddy little laugh bubbles up in Martin’s throat, a wild smile taking over his face. He takes both of Jon’s hands in his own and brings them both up to his face to kiss, one after the other. “I. I’d love that, Jon.”

Jon answers Martin’s smile with his own, full of relief and actual, honest-to-god happiness, and it’s not just the sun making Martin feel warm down to his core. “I— Good. Good.” He nods, tries to bite back his smile, fails, and leans his head onto Martin’s chest.

Martin kisses the top of Jon’s head. “Wow,” he says, “going on a date with _Jon Sims_. Never would’ve thought that would happen four years ago.”

“If we’d gone on a date four years ago, you would’ve had a miserable time and never spoken to me again,” Jon says into the collar of Martin’s shirt.

Martin laughs again, quieter this time. “Guess we’re doing things a bit out of order, aren’t we? I mean, I don’t think most couples wait until after they’ve moved in together to have their first date.”

Jon shrugs. “Yes, well. Mitigating circumstances and all.”

“Fair,” Martin grants. “I s’pose most couples don’t start their relationship holed up in a safehouse on the run from literal monsters.”

“And police,” Jon adds.

“Right, and police.”

Jon huffs a laugh, and a second later they’re both laughing, leaning into each other, quiet and soft but still honestly, truly joyful as they haven’t been in… _ever_ , maybe.

When they calm, Martin gives Jon’s one last indulgent kiss on his forehead before pulling away. “Right. Anyway, I’ll, erm. I’ll go change, and we can… Head out whenever you’re ready?”

Jon’s still riding out the tail end of a fond smile. He nods. “Take your time,” he says.

Martin leaves him to get ready, something bright and giddy lodging itself in his chest. It’s not just that he can’t even remember the last time he did anything that looked like a date, or that he and Jon haven’t done many normal couple-y things like this.

It’s that Jon _asked him on a date_. That after monsters and fear and nearly watching the world end, they finally get the chance to just… have a relationship together.

A year ago, Martin was fully convinced that whatever short life he had left, he’d be spending alone. Tim was gone, his mum was gone, and Jon was— He hadn’t even been sure if— no, that’s wrong. At the time he’d been completely sure that he wouldn’t ever get to really talk to Jon again.

He’d been no better than a ghost already, shoving his heart down, away from the light, and telling himself it was for the best to cut Jon out, to leave him be, let them get over each other and get on with their lives before he went through with whatever Peter had in store for him and they lost each other forever. Easier that way, or so he’d told himself, even as it tore at his heart, made every cell in his body ache every day.

Martin sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

A year ago, he resigned himself to a life alone. Now he’s in the apartment he shares with the man he loves more than anything, trying to pick out a nice button down so he and Jon can go out and enjoy the first nice day of the season together.

So, yeah. He’s a bit _giddy_.

Every ounce of easy happiness they have now, they fought for. The fight isn’t over, but today is a good day, so why not enjoy it?

—

They get a cottage together.

Martin’s flat… it’s been homebase for them since they got back to London simply by virtue of them having nowhere else to go. It’s never felt like their _home_ ; hasn’t been a home for Martin since Prentiss and the worms and the peaches. After that he always just felt… lonely, whenever he was there.

So… they leave, because they can, and they want to, together.

It’s not a safehouse, this time, filled mostly with dust and knives and expired canned food, but a proper cottage, in a little village outside Oxfordshire. It’s nothing grand; Peter paid Martin more than alright, during his brief employ, and Jon’s got a _bit_ put away from his time as Head Archivist, but in the wake of everything that happened, neither of them actually have _jobs_ anymore, nor are they really looking yet.

(The Institute — well, even if they’d wanted to go back for some reason, it’s gone now. As soon as the sky split open and they saw stars again instead of eyes, Daisy and Basira had followed Gertrude’s lead and burned the whole place to the ground. They’d gotten to Jonah’s corpse in the Panopticon next and given it a similar treatment. Martin’s not sure what happened to Elias; Basira had simply told Martin that Daisy “took care of him,” and that was that.

It all sounds a bit nasty, but all things considered, Martin thinks it could’ve been worse. They got about the best outcome any of them could’ve hoped for. Everyone’s still alive, and the Eye’s hold on them all severed with Jon.)

Still, Martin thinks the cottage is perfect. It’s quite picturesque, honestly, and it's easier to make accessible for Jon than Martin’s cheap, shitty flat had been. In the middle of sprawling fields, with plenty of lovely cows and beautiful wildflowers. There’s an intrepid little chicken who wanders over sometimes from the farm across the lane, and Mrs. Rollings next door gives Martin fresh fruits and veggies from her garden every week before her wife takes the rest to a farmer’s market in the next village over.

And more important than all of that, it’s _theirs_. Actually, properly theirs, with both their names on the lease and everything.

It takes ages to get unpacked and settled. Martin’s not entirely sure _why_ ; neither of them even have much to unpack. Everything they own fits in the back of Daisy’s truck and takes exactly one trip to get up there.

But maybe that’s the reason. The cottage isn’t huge, but they don’t have enough to fill it up, so before they can properly settle, they need to get things like… coat hangers and furniture and dishes.

So, there’s a box. The last box. Martin doesn’t even know what’s in it anymore. It can’t be that important if they’ve left it alone this long. It’s been sitting under the kitchen table since they moved in, but Martin’s had enough of it.

This is theirs to have, and if he’s ever going to believe it, he has to put his money where his mouth is. So now the box is in the living room. It’s on the floor, and Martin is sitting cross-legged in front of it, Jon crouched at his side.

“What’ve we got in here, anyway?” Martin asks, more to himself than anything, pulling up a line of packing tape.

Jon shrugs, running a finger along the frayed cardboard on one corner of the box. “Hell if I know.”

Martin smiles, bumping Jon’s shoulder with his own. “Guess we’ll be surprised, then.”

Jon leans into it, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Tell me if there’s anything interesting.”

“’Course, love,” Martin replies. He pulls the box open, peering inside. “Seems like mostly just clothes.”

He pulls out a dusty jacket, wrinkling his nose. He used to wear it, but he thought he’d lost it when he was a living in the archives. “ _Old_ clothes. Haven’t seen this jacket since before the Prentiss thing.”

“Mm.” Jon nods slowly, before suddenly snapping upright, reaching out and rubbing his fingers over a dangling sleeve. “Oh. _Oh_. Er. Is that— i-is it the blue one? With, ah, with that little patch by the pocket?”

Martin turns to look at him. “Yeah, how’d you know that?”

Jon flushes spectacularly, going red all over. “I might’ve. Repurposed it. After you stopped living in the archives.”

Martin looks at him for a moment, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. “What, you mean you nicked it from me, and, and wore it when I wasn’t around?”

“Maybe,” Jon says stoically.

Martin pictures it, then: Jon at his desk at some ungodly hour of the night, pouring over statements, with Martin’s jacket draped over his shoulders, and his smile softens significantly. “Must’ve been a bit… big on you.”

Jon ducks his head, rubs his hand over the back of his neck, mumbles something Martin doesn’t _quite_ catch.

“Sorry, must’ve missed that. Can you say that again?”

Jon crosses his arms. “I said _that’s why it was nice_ ,” he almost snaps.

Martin’s smile broadens. “Ah, well. Guess you might as well keep it then.” He holds the jacket out to Jon, who reaches for it slowly. Martin passes it over, but something falls from the pocket and clatters against the floor.

Martin’s eyes land on it, and there’s a moment of stabbing, icy fear, anxiety shooting out from his heart and making his fingers tingle.

Jon frowns. “Is that—”

There’s a little black rectangle sitting on the floor of their little cottage. Martin hasn’t seen one of these in ages, but he recognizes it anyway, even though the recorders at the Institute stopped needing them towards the end. They just… popped up and got on with it, and then seemed to fade away again when they’d gotten their fill.

“A tape,” Martin finishes.

“Oh.” Jon’s hand finds his shoulder, rests there. The warmth radiating out from his palm is a soothing balm.

Martin swallows, tries to sound casual when he opens his mouth again. “W-what d’you reckon that’s doing here? It’s not— I mean. Th-the Eye’s not— I mean, it-it’s over, right?”

But then, when Martin looks back over to Jon, he doesn’t look frightened, he looks… he looks sheepish, almost, dark blush spread all the way down to his neck. “It’s not a statement,” he says.

Just as quick as it came, the fear recedes, replaced by a budding confusion. “Wh—Why. How—” Martin shakes his head.

Jon picks up the tape, turns it over in his hands. “If it’s in _that_ jacket then I, uh. I know what this is,” he admits.

“W-What is it?”

Jon takes a long, slow breath. “Well. It’s. See, you were— when you were doing that. Thing. With _Peter_ ,” he says the name like it’s something he’s just discovered rotting in the back of the fridge. “You didn’t… We weren’t talking very much.”

“No,” Martin agrees, unsteadily.

“And I, well. I…” He fidgets, and then he picks up the tape. Martin nearly flinches, but the way he holds it, it’s like he’s holding something precious, something to be treated with reverence, not some horrifying remnant of the thing that nearly destroyed their lives.

His voice is impossibly soft when he speaks again, face turned down to his hands even though Martin knows he can’t really see what’s in them. “I missed you. I-I missed your _voice_. And, and there were a few these, the tapes you used to record your poems on. Still in your old desk in the archives. So I. ah.” He’s getting very tense. “I listened to them, sometimes. When you were gone.”

“Oh,” Martin says, because that’s all he can say. It’s— well, Martin’s never been loved like Jon loves him, and then something like this happens, and it really knocks the wind out of him. “So this is… one of my—”

“Yes.”

“You kept it.”

“I kept _all_ of them,” Jon admits, mumbling like he doesn’t quite want to be overheard, like he’s afraid he’ll get scolded for it. “I— I missed you.” He says again.

“Jon…” Martin puts a hand on Jon’s cheek, guides his chin up so they’re facing one another.

Jon swallows. “Martin.”

Martin’s not sure which of them moves first, but the next second they’re kissing, lips pressing together slowly and deliberately. A firm reminder, a silent _I’m here, I’m here,_ _and I’m not going anywhere_.

When they pull apart, Jon’s hand is twisted in Martin’s T-shirt, and he rests his forehead against Martin’s.

“I really love you, you know?” Martin breathes.

“I know. I love you, too, Martin,” Jon returns. “And I’m still keeping the coat.”

Martin smiles. He kisses Jon again, on the corner of his mouth. “Good. Bet it looks better on you anyway.”

Jon huffs, and after that there’s not much talking at all. The box, sitting forgotten on the floor beside them, will just have to wait for another day.

—

A few months after they move in, they have everyone round the cottage for tea as a sort of informal housewarming. “Everyone,” in this case, means four specific people: Basira, Daisy, Georgie, and Melanie.

(It’s not the first time they’ve all seen each other since everything ended; they’ve met up a few times since, even if it’s not as often as they used to see each other.

The first time was in the hospital, with Jon half-delirious, face covered in bandages, but heart still beating and lungs still breathing.

They’d all just sort of gravitated together. First it’d been Melanie and Georgie, trialing in together looking tired and a bit awkward. It was fine, though. They were there. The last time Jon had been in a hospital he’d been… very alone. Lying there with only occasional visitors and distant hospital staff, most people all but writing him off.

And Martin had been. Well, he’d been alone, too, hadn’t he? And coping absolutely horribly.

But it was different this time.

Basira and Daisy didn’t arrive until a few days later, but they got there eventually, hands held firmly together between them, fingers clasped so tightly Martin would’ve bet they could’ve been used to gaud vaults of gold or precious paintings, with exhaustion and relief rolling off of them in almost palpable waves. That’s when Basira’d told him about the Institute, and Jonah Magnus. And they’d all stayed, waiting together until Jon was discharged.

Martin’s not even sure if any of them have anything in common anymore, or if they ever did. The Institute held them together before, and without that he’s not sure any of them would’ve chosen each other for company.

But Martin still has panic attacks when it gets too misty out, still hears dull, empty waves in his nightmares, and damn it all if he’s going to let them all fall away from each other, let them isolate after going through what they all went through together.

They all need each other, and if Martin has to bully everyone into sticking together, so be it. It’s worth it, he knows. The thing that matters most, he thinks, is having someone who’s there, someone to reach out and stick with you.)

Just like last time, it’s Georgie and Melanie who turn up first. Georgie gives the place a scathing once over; she’s trying hard to trust them again, but it will take time. That’s okay, though. They’ve got plenty of it, now, thanks to Jon.

Melanie, one hand nestled in the crook of Georgie’s arm and the other holding a small potted cactus, has new glasses since the last time they saw each other. They suit her, Martin thinks.

“It’s nice,” is the first thing Georgie says, furtively, as she looks around their little living room. She’s got Melanie’s cane, folded up and tucked under her free arm. “Cozy.”

“Thanks,” Martin says, smiling at her.

“We brought you a cactus,” Melanie adds, with a cheerful smile, holding the pot out. “Y’know. House warming and all that.”

Melanie seems happier than Martin can ever remember seeing her. He’s glad; he remembers how rough it was for her, in the Archives. How bad things got. He’s glad she’s got Georgie, and he’s glad she’s found reasons to smile again.

“Oh. T-thank you,” Jon says, a bit awkward at Martin’s side.

“It’s lovely.” Martin agrees.

“Georgie picked it out.”

“Well. Thank you, Georgie,” Martin tells her, again. He takes the cactus, puts it on the coffee table. He and Jon will find a more permanent home for it later.

Georgie shrugs. “Would it ruin the mood if I told you I chose it ‘cause I wasn’t sure if either of you could keep any other plant alive?”

Martin can’t stop himself. He snorts, and a little bit of tension bleeds from the room.

Daisy and Basira turn up about ten minutes later.

They’re still connected at the hip, and hold hands all the way down the hall to the living room.

And Martin gets that. Basira thought she lost Daisy _twice_. A few nights back Martin woke when Jon was in the bathroom and nearly had a panic attack. Almost losing someone the way he and Basira have almost lost someone is a special kind of fear that leaves you with a special kind of protectiveness.

Georgie and Melanie have taken over the whole couch (Georgie sitting cross-legged on one side, Melanie spread out across the rest of it with her feet in Georgie’s lap), and Jon’s perched on the arm of the loveseat by the window, so Daisy and Basira take spots on the floor by.

Martin makes everyone tea, passes out mis-matched mugs, sets milk and sugar out on the coffee table. Daisy pokes the little cactus, frowns and sticks her tongue out at it when it stings her. Georgie giggles. Basira rolls her eyes fondly.

And Martin… Martin is _really_ glad to see them.

“How’s the Admiral doing?” Basira asks, once everyone’s settled.

“He’s good,” Georgie answers. “He’s been spending a lot of time with Helen and Michael lately. He seems to like them.”

“We’re a bit worried they’re going to steal him,” Melanie admits.

“W-wait, hang on.” Jon’s head whips towards Georgie and Melanie. “Helen and Michael? You mean—”

“Distortion. Yeah,” Georgie says. “You haven’t seen Helen and Michael yet?”

Jon looks vaguely like he’s been hit. “No,” Martin answers for him. “We’ve been… Y’know. A bit out of it all.”

“Oh.” Georgie hums. “They’re back, now.”

“Both of them?” Jon asks, leaning towards the sound of her voice.

“Mhmm.”

“And they’re both—“

“Human,” Melanie confirms. “Got a flat in our building. Helen and I always got on, I think she likes being close by.”

“And they’re, what, _roommates_ now?” Martin asks. “They’re not, like…”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Melanie answers. “Just roommates, definitely. Think it was just… they’re the only ones who’ve been through what they’ve been through. They help each other.”

“And they’re... stealing your cat?”

Melanie laughs softly. “Helen loves the Admiral. She used to just turn up to see him, so eventually we just started letting him go over. He’s a good therapy cat.”

“Huh,” Jon says. “That’s. Huh.”

“You could pop by some time,” Georgie offers, “say hi. I’m sure the Admiral misses you, too.”

“Oh,” Jon says. “That’d be… That would be nice.”

“Oh, yeah,” Melanie says, sitting up and making an excited motion with her hand. Martin hasn’t seen her this animated in… well, he’s not sure if he ever has, really. It makes him smile. “Maybe we can have, like, game night. Like proper normal boring grown ups do with other couples, you know?”

Daisy laughs, a quiet, gentle sound. Basira flashes Melanie a smile; Martin’s not sure if it’s for the invitation or for making Daisy laugh, but in a second her expression changes again anyway.

“Hang on,” she says, and snatches Melanie’s hand out of the air lightning-quick and holds it right up to her face. “What’s _this_?”

Daisy leans in, and then her face snaps up to Georgie, mouth hanging open. Martin, sitting all the way over by the window with Jon, can’t quite see what the fuss is about, until Basira moves Melanie’s hand just so and a beam of sunlight catches and glints off a little gold band on her ring finger.

Martin inhales sharply. “Georgie,” he says, “did you—”

“What?” Jon asks. “What’s _happening_?”

Martin forgets, sometimes, that Jon can’t just see what the rest of them are seeing anymore. He takes Jon’s hand as a silent apology.

“Well, cat’s out of the bag now, I guess,” Georgie says, but she’s smiling as she does it, a soft thing that has her looking young and almost vulnerable.

“We were gonna wait to tell you lot,” Melanie says, “Make a whole… _announcement_ out of it. But. Well, yeah. Georgie and I are getting married. She popped the question last Sunday.”

Everyone’s happy, talking over each other to offer congratulations and praise, and specifics get a bit lost.

 _Getting married_.

There’s a moment, where Basira and Daisy are cooing over Georgie and Melanie, who look pleased as punch as they slowly relay all the details of Georgie’s proposal, and even Jon has moved closer and taken Melanie’s hand, fingers twisting curiously and gently at the ring there, and it all feels so… so _normal_.

Martin hasn’t known normal in years. And before that, his normal wasn’t even very happy, tinged, he thinks, with the Lonely for a very long time before he even heard the name _Lukas_. But this… Martin can hardly hold it all in.

They’re all here, and they’re all trying their hardest. They’ll be okay.

—

Georgie and Melanie take off before sunset, and Daisy and Basira leave just before dinnertime. It’s nice to see them, but it’s also nice to get the house all to themselves again. They have fried rice for dinner, and afterwards they do the dishes together, Jon washing and Martin drying, because Martin had discovered back in the safehouse that Jon’s the type to just stick his sopping wet dishes right into the cabinet with no remorse.

They’re standing side-by-side at the sink, silent save for the running water and quiet music filtering through a little wireless radio on the windowsill. (Martin’s not really sure what it’s even playing, but neither he nor Jon are very picky these days. It’s nice to just have these little reminders that the world still exists.)

Every once in a while Jon’s thigh or elbow will bump into Martin’s, or vice versa, an occasional reminder of the peaceful domesticity they’ve managed to snag for themselves.

Martin’s so zoned out it takes him a moment to realize Jon’s gone still.

He’s standing with a clean plate in his hands, running a thumb over the smooth ceramic, his brow pinched and his mouth turned down into the starting of a scowl.

He’s obviously thinking very hard about something. Martin’s not sure if he should just let him be or snap him out of it, but Jon beats him to it.

“Do you ever… think about that?”

Martin blinks. He tries to think back to the last thread of conversation they’d been having, but can’t make it add up with this question. “Um,” he starts. “Think about what?”

Jon suddenly develops a sudden and seemingly intense fixation in a near-microscopic chip on the plate’s edge. “Um. Uh— Just… Actually. Er. You know, never mind.”

Martin reaches over, turns the tap off. “No, it’s okay, I wan to hear it. Think about what?”

Jon goes very, very red. Shoulders hunching up to his ears. “Well. I mean. Georgie and Melanie. They, they. They’re going to…”

Martin thinks he knows what Jon’s on about, now, and goes very still. “Going to get married?”

“Yes,” Jon nods. “That.”

Martin puts a hand on the counter, calms himself. _Do_ not _get ahead of yourself_. “Do I ever think about…”

Jon’s breath catches audibly. “ _That_. Getting married. Being married. Th-the whole… concept. Thing.”

Martin bites his lip. “Jon Sims, are you—”

Jon drops the plate into the sink. “ _No_ ,” he says. “I-I mean. Not. Not _no_ , not really but. Not yet.”

“Not _yet_?”

Jon hunches his shoulder even more. He’s already so tiny, Martin’s a bit concerned he’ll vanish entirely. “Well, it’s hardly romantic, is it? Just, just out of the blue while I’m scraping food off a dirty plate!”

“Oh, are you planning to make it romantic then?” Martin asks. At this point, he’s half-dizzy and thinking of pinching himself to make sure he didn’t nod off at some point, that this isn’t some kind of dream.

“Well— _Yes_ ,” Jon chokes out, his cheeks going darker and darker by the second.

“I— oh,” Martin says, on a shaky exhale.

“Look. It’s just— it’s _you_. You’re _Martin_. You’re… You should— I-if you’re being proposed to, it should be… _romantic_. It should be _nice_. It should—” His breath catches, but his voice is getting softer and softer as he goes, until Martin just wants to fall right into the sound of it and curl up there for awhile. “You deserve something romantic and nice. Something _perfect_.”

“Jon,” he breathes, suddenly at a loss for words. He swallows thickly around something big and brilliantly pleased in his throat.

“Er.” Jon frowns. “Well. A-as close to perfect as it can get, that is. I know it can’t be _perfect_ -perfect, but… I can _try_.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin says again. “I…” He has just discovered for about the millionth time that, yes, it is possible to love Jon more than he already did. “Yeah, it’s something I’ve thought about. Something I _think_ about.”

It’s a little embarrassing how much he’s thought about it, frankly. Sometimes he even likes to imagine what a ring might look like on his left hand.

Jon’s shoulders un-hunch all at once, relaxing in a slump back down to normal shoulder height. “You do? You do.”

“C’mon,” Martin’s hand twitches, uncertain for a moment, before he reaches out and slips his fingers into Jon’s. Their hands are both still damp and clammy, but Martin doesn’t have it in him to care. “After the year we’ve had, do you really think I’d ever want to let you out of my _sight_ again?”

Jon rewards him with a smile, crooked and earnest and absolutely stunning. “Perhaps that’s fair.”

“Didn’t realize it was something you’d thought about, really,” Martin admits.

“I could be _married_ ,” Jon protests.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, but—”

Martin stops himself, but not quite in time.

Jon’s smile falls. “But?”

Martin trusts Jon. According to his therapist (yes, he has a therapist. Jon has one too, thanks), it’s good to be vulnerable after what he’s been through. Healthy. “But I just can’t imagine why you’d want to marry _me_.”

Jon sobers in an instant. “Martin,” he starts, “you can’t be serious.”

Martin nearly cringes. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s— please don’t apologize,” Jon says, reaching a hand out, settling it nervously on Martin’s arm. “Look. You know I’m… I’m not the most eloquent man. I, uh, I’ve never been good at. At putting these things into words. Not, not the important stuff. _This_ stuff. But.” He sets his jaw, stands up a bit straighter. “If you’ll bear with me here for a moment, I’d like to give it my best shot.”

Jon takes a slow, deliberate breath, while Martin very nearly holds his.

“I… God, Martin, all I can really say is that you’re _you_. I hardly even know where to _start_. Sometimes I wish I still had a connection to the Eye, so I could, could _Compel_ myself to list out every little thing I love about you as beautifully as you deserve to hear it. But, we might be here for a while if I did, so perhaps it’s for the best, anyway.

“When you’re around, I feel… right. I’ve never exactly… connected with people. It’s— hard, for me. It feels a bit like everyone else has a script or a set of instructions for being a _person_ and no one ever bothered to tell me, so I’ve just got to. Figure it out as I go, and I never do it _right_.”

He pauses, briefly, and Martin squeezes his hand a bit tighter.

“But it doesn’t feel that way around you,” he goes on. “With you it’s… it’s okay to just be. I’m, I’m _happy_ around you. And I hope, I _hope_ you’re happy around me, too, I hope you feel as safe as I do, because I like being around you and I’m going to stick around for as long as you’ll let me.”

He stops, finally, and Martin… Martin just stares.

This…

This isn’t how things go for Martin.

All his life, Martin’s never had someone he can just _be_ with. He’s always too much, or not enough, some variation of _wrong_ that would always leave him feeling tired and more alone than ever at the end of the day.

Martin’s voice is thick when he finally speaks. “I-I have to say. You really sell yourself short with the words, there.” He sniffs. “That was… _Jon_ , I. That was. Thank you, f-for saying that.”

“If you ever doubt it, I’ll tell you again,” Jon promises him, “anytime you need. Please just ask.”

“Okay. And I do,” Martin adds hastily. “Feel safe. And happy, and _loved_. With you. You’re my, my _anchor_.”

“Oh, thank god,” Jon breathes, and Martin laughs wetly.

“I love you so much, Jon.”

“I love you, too,” Jon tells him.

Martin leans in, kisses him on the forehead, lingers there for a moment. “Well,” he says weakly, wiping at his eyes. “S-should we get these dishes finished now, or?”

To answer him, Jon goes up on his toes and steals a kiss from his lips. “In a minute.”

Martin gives another shaky laugh, which gets caught off by another kiss.

Really, he can’t argue with that.

—

Martin doesn’t _only_ dream about the Lonely.

No. The Lonely hurt, but having lived through most of his worst nightmares in real life means his brain has _plenty_ of material for his subconscious to pick from.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He rarely does these days. Martin takes sleep where he can get it, mostly. It’s exhausting, being afraid all the time, trying to keep things together not just for himself but for Jon as well.

He vaguely remembers getting up off the couch, crawling into bed with Jon earlier that evening.The next thing he knows, the whole world is screaming.

That’s what it sounds like, anyway. It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before. In Martin’s heart, the sky is tearing open, the earth swallowing itself whole.

Martin bolts upright. “Jon,” he croaks, looking frantically around the room, scrambling for his glasses on the nightstand. Jon is not there. The curtains are drawn against the mess outside, the thin duvet is mussed, tossed aside, and empty on Jon’s side. “Jon!”

He’s on his feet before he can even get them on his face; his hands trembling, heart in his throat, screaming against his ribs.

Martin has spent the last few years of his life employed at an institution designed to rip and tear at his fear, has spent the last three weeks in a world ruled by the concept of terror itself, and still he knows, in this moment, that he has never been this afraid in his life.

After one endless moment of that all consuming panic, Martin sees light spilling out from under the closed bathroom door. It doesn’t look right, and Martin’s not sure if that because he’s operating on pure fear right now, or if it’s because something is actually wrong with it.

(Something _is_ wrong. He knows it. Jon wouldn’t scream like that for nothing.)

Martin’s across the room in a second. Frantic, he tries the knob, already getting all these stupid thoughts about how best to break the door in, but finds it blessedly unlocked, a small miracle before his world ends in earnest.

Right away he notices the light is wrong. Twisting around the room, bending over itself like it’s become a caged animal and it’s finally trying to break free. Something is breaking, something bigger than he can really comprehend right now, but Martin hardly cares, because, because — 

Jon is there, in the middle of the floor, and he’s not okay.

He’s doubled over on his knees, one of Daisy’s knives lying on the floor off to his right, and there’s — _God_ , there’s so much blood, streaming down his face, like he’s crying it out, almost.

Martin’s not a doctor, he doesn’t even know what five pints of anything even looks like, but he can swear there’s too much blood on the bathroom floor; surely, _surely_ a human body (especially one as small as Jon’s) can’t hold all that blood, can’t _lose_ all that blood and still survive.

But Jon is still — he’s moving, arms trembling and wrapping around himself, slumping forward over his knees.

He’s alive, even with all this blood, and something else that doesn’t quite look like blood mixing in with it all, staining the toes of Martin’s socks as it spreads like a horrible crimson wave in this bathroom that feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

“ _Martin_ ,” Jon says, but it’s not…

It’s not coming from the Jon on the floor.

Martin wakes with a painful gasp, and suddenly he’s not in the safehouse anymore. The blood bathroom is replaced by their bedroom, all the gore replaced by Jon’s blurred outline hovering over him, face pale and pinched with worry but free of blood.

“Martin,” he says again, and Martin full-body shudders.

“ _Jon_ ,” he chokes out, and then he lunges forward, throwing his arms around Jon and holding onto him like his life depends on it.

Jon goes stiff for a moment, but then his arms come up, around Martin’s back, one of his hands running up and down his spine. “There we go,” Jon says, resting his nose in Martin’s hair.

Martin’s breath hitches, and when he lets it out, it comes in a sob, and he hides his face in the crook of Jon’s neck. “S-sorry, I’m—“ He cuts himself off, can’t quite go on, doesn’t even know what to even say.

“Don’t, you don’t— It’s fine, it’s _alright_ ,” Jon says, a little desperate. He’s not great with this, Martin knows; comfort is a language he’s still learning, but for Martin, he tries, and that’s everything Martin needs.

“You were, you—” Martin cuts off again. He doesn’t want to relive it, hates having to see it again in his dreams. Living your worst nightmare in real life should exempt you from having to actually have nightmares about it, he thinks.

“I’m here,” Jon says.

“You’re here,” Martin repeats, voice wet and ragged.

He can feel Jon nodding. “We’re here. It’s. It was just a dream, whatever it was.”

Martin pulls back, hands on Jon’s shoulders, sliding up his neck to hold his face. Jon inhales sharply, lets it out slowly as Martin’s thumb caresses over his cheeks, just below where the scars start, gets his fill of looking, eyes trailing on every bit of Jon’s face in turn.

There’s no blood, now. Just Jon, all his attention focused so clearly right back on Martin even without sight. He’s lovely. He’s lovely and he’s here and he’s healthy and he’s finally, wholly safe.

Moonlight shines in through the window opposite the bed. It hits Jon’s face, accentuating his features, turning his scars a pale silver against soft brown.

Jon’s hand comes up to cover his own. His skin is warm, and Martin can feel his heartbeat, steady against his skin. He tries to breathe in time with it, like he can match them together somehow.

“Would you— do you need anything? Do you… want me to make you tea?” Jon offers, with a voice gentled like that time he’d come for Martin in the Lonely, pulling him out of another nightmare.

Martin sniffs, cheeks wet. “No, thanks,” he answers. “Will you just stay here, with me?”

“Of _course_ ,” Jon answers. “Whatever you need.”

Martin exhales slowly. “Just need you,” he tells him softly, and lays back against the pillows. Jon goes with him, hovering over him for a moment before settling his head on Martin’s chest.

“I’m here,” Jon tells him. “Always. Just like you said.”

Martin’s lips pull into a soft smile of their own accord. His arms, pulling Jon a little closer to him, is an entirely conscious choice, though.

—

Martin never anticipated that Jon might be the touchy-feely sort until they moved in together. In the safehouse Martin learned quick enough that Jon wasn’t actually as distant as he made himself out to be; it was just that, after four years of only touches that hurt and scarred, he’d just been too afraid to ever reach out for any kind of comfort.

The truth about Jon is that, when he’s tired, or moody, or cold, or really just when he’s given any kind of chance, he _clings_.

Not that that’s _bad_ , mind you. Martin, well… Martin’s been dumped a fair few times in his life for being _too clingy_. To finally have someone who clings back is… it’s nice.

Martin can tell Jon’s not used to it; he always goes about it like he’s scared of spooking some wild animal, like his affection is something he doesn’t want to inflict on Martin.

It would break Martin’s heart if he didn’t understand so well. When you grow up without any kind of affection, it can be like learning a second language, slow going, and a bit awkward at first.

He’s getting better at it, now, which is just… Incredible. Martin loves it. Loves Jon, and loves every ounce of affection Jon’s willing to give him.

The cottage doesn’t have central heating. There’s a space heater upstairs that they keep in their bedroom. They used to have one down here in the living room, too, but it’s the same one Martin’s been using since he moved out and got his own flat, and it finally gave up the ghost for good about a week back.

They’ll get around to replacing it eventually, but it’s not gotten cold enough yet for it to be much of a concern. Anyway, Martin quite likes the ways they keep themselves warm.

Jon finds Martin on the couch just after sunset.

He slides a hand along the back of the couch until he finds one of the blankets they keep around expressly for this purpose. He comes around front and settles, scooching until he’s able to fold himself securely against Martin’s side. Martin lifts his arm, waits for Jon to settle, and then wraps it around his shoulders while Jon tugs the blanket over both of them.

Martin smiles. “Hi.”

Jon hums, arms snaking around Martin. “Hello.”

His fingers are cool where they meet Martin’s skin. Martin leans into the touch anyway; they both run a bit cold, these days. He’s not sure if it’s some strange sort of residual side effect from what they went through, or just something he never properly noticed before they got close enough for all these touches, but they can keep each other warm, either way.

Martin makes it about half a sentence in the book he’s been trying to read before his attention, as it always, inevitably does, shifts right back to Jon. “Do you need anything? I could… Make tea, or something?”

“No,” Jon shakes his head, holds Martin a little tighter, “Thank you.”

Martin slips his fingers self-indulgently into Jon’s hair. Jon’s breath catches, and a second later he melts against Martin’s chest, leaning into the touch like a cat.

“Not sure how much fun I’ll be just sitting here reading,” Martin says, a smile creeping onto his face and camping there. “But you’re quite cute right now, if I do say so myself.”

Jon’s too comfortable to even pretend to fuss. He just lets his head fall onto Martin’s shoulder, a warmth spreading from the line where their bodies are pressed together. Instead he asks, with genuine curiosity in his tone, “What are you reading?”

“That Amy Lowell collection you found me last week,” Martin answers.

“Oh,” Jon says, making a face. Not a bad face; Martin can translate this face as one of his happy ones.

Jon has taken to snagging any poetry book he can find at the used bookshop in the village for Martin. It’s incredibly endearing, and something about it feels very intimate. Maybe because he let Martin in on the story of his reading habits when he was a kid, it feels like Jon’s showing Martin a new piece of himself every time he comes turns up with an armful of gently distressed paperbacks along with their groceries.

“It’s quite good,” Martin tells him.

“Oh,” Jon says again. “I, I’m glad to hear it.”

Martin hums softly, resting his cheek on Jon’s hair. “Thanks again.”

“Of course,” he says softly, reaching up and fitting his hand against Martin’s cheek. He traces his thumb over Martin’s lips; a little habit he’s developed to discern when Martin’s smiling or not.

(Jon had told him, in the hospital in Scotland, that even though he didn’t regret what he did, he did wish he’d seen Martin smile more often before he lost his sight entirely.)

“Martin,” Jon says, with a sudden uncertainty.

Martin, hopelessly enamored, kisses the scarred pad of Jon’s thumb before answering. “Yes, love?”

Martin can practically hear the gears in Jon’s head turn, and waits patiently for Jon to work himself up to whatever it is he wants to say.

“Do you…” He trails off. Martin shifts, dogs ears his book, sets it on the arm of the couch, gives Jon his full attention. “Do you still write?”

Martin blinks. “Oh. Er…”

Caught off guard, it takes him a minute to formulate a response.

The truth is: no.

He remembers Jon telling him he’d held onto recordings of Martin’s old poems, but the Martin that actually did the writing feels like a different person. It just hasn’t really hit him until now that he hasn’t even thought of writing since… before the Unknowing. Before Peter Lukas.

Before the Lonely.

He thinks he misses it.

“I suppose not, no,” Martin murmurs, “not. Not really.”

Jon’s frowning when Martin looks back down at him.

“Something wrong with that?” Martin asks.

“ _No_ ,” Jon is quick to assure him, squeezing Martin’s shoulder. “No. Just… Just wondering. I—”

Jon stops himself abruptly. Martin waits.

“I… Sometimes I miss your poems. A bit.”

Martin can’t help but stare, wide-eyed and incredulous. “You do? Even though it’s all so—” He searches for a moment, trying to recall the exact words Jon used on the tape. “Awful and enamored with Keats?”

Jon sits up so abruptly his head almost knocks into Martin’s chin. “You heard that?”

Martin shrugs. “We all did. Er, Tim, and — I guess just Tim and I, because that wasn’t really Sasha, at that point — we were worried, and we… found some of your, er, _supplementals_.”

“Ah.” Jon’s face falls, and he sits back, leaning away from Martin. Martin immediately misses the warmth of his closeness. “Martin… I, I never—“ His hands, touching Martin so tenderly a moment ago, clench together awkwardly in his lap. “I’m sorry, about the things I said back then.”

Martin huffs, smiles fondly at Jon. “I know. It’s okay.”

“I was an ass,” Jon says.

“A bit,” Martin grants, “but you’ve made up for it, I think.”

Jon frowns. “No, Martin, I’m being _serious_.” He fumbles around until he finds Martin’s hand, pulls it in-between both of his own and holds it there. Jon’s fingertips are still just a bit cold, but Martin’s palm feels warm in Jon’s hold. “I’ve been thinking a lot about… Those early days in the Archives. I was. So dismissive, and rude, and I said some, some very unkind things about you, and I’m _sorry_.”

Martin softens. “Oh, Jon. I _know_. And it really is okay. It was a long time ago, and you certainly show me how much you care for me now.”

Jon relaxes a bit, shoulders slumping, but that little furrow between his eyebrows goes nowhere. “And I don’t think your poetry’s bad,” he adds. “I-I like it. I just didn’t. I didn’t see it for what it was at the time. It’s… it’s a part of you, and I’m lucky I got to see it, t-to know you a bit better.”

Martin has to swallow around an unexpected lump in his throat. “That’s… that’s very sweet,” is all he can say, dazed and stupid with love as he is.

Jon sits for a moment, silent and still, but finally he shifts, and leans back against Martin, who’s glad to finally be able to wrap him back up in his arms.

After a moment, Jon mumbles into Martin’s collarbone. “I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate you… before.”

Martin holds him just a bit tighter. “I know. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, towards the end.”

Jon shakes his head. “You— you’re there for me. Always have been, when I needed it most.”

“And I know how much you appreciate me. You show me every day,” Martin tells him. “So can we just… not beat ourselves up for things that happened ages ago?”

“I’ll _try_ ,” Jon tells him, almost petulant. “No promises.”

Martin sighs dramatically. He can tell from Jon’s tone that he’s feeling a bit better. “Alright, you stubborn man.”

Jon huffs. “You know,” he mumbles, “if, or, or _when_ you do start writing again, you could… share it with me, if you want. If that’s something you’re comfortable with.”

Martin’s thumb traces over Jon’s back, falling off the ridge of his shoulder blade. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I’d really like that.”

Martin bites his lip, but he can’t the smile that blooms across his face. He thinks about the difference between knowing and Knowing, thinks of all the effort he and Jon have made to learn and know each other. He thinks of how many pieces they gave up to try and save the world, and how they’re free to take those pieces back now.

“I’d like that too.”

—

Georgie and Melanie get married in June, a year-and-a-half after the world stops ending. The ceremony’s held on the beach, and the reception at a very cute little beachside restaurant nearby. It’s all very romantic and charming; maybe Martin cries (twice) and holds onto Jon’s hand like an anchor.

(The only anchor he’ll ever need.)

There’re… a lot of people there. Martin’s a little embarrassed at how strange he finds that, but Georgie and Melanie still have plenty of family and friends that had nothing to do with the Institute. They’ve got siblings and mums and dads and aunts and uncles and Martin even meets one of Georgie’s grandmothers, who tells him he has nice eyes and that Jon looks very fetching in green.

A few months ago, Martin might’ve felt overwhelmed. He might’ve clung to the outskirts of the event until he faded out entirely, letting the color and the life of things go on without him while he let cold static eat him alive until he finally felt peacefully numb.

But things are different now, and instead Martin spends the evening laughing with Jon and drinking champagne with Daisy and meeting Georgie’s gran.

(He even, miracle of miracles, manages to talk Jon into a dance. Neither of them are any good at all and Martin can’t stop smiling the whole time.)

It’s almost 11:00 when they finally head out. It’s only a few hours back to the cottage, but Jon hates drives longer than 10 minutes on the best of days, and Martin’s had enough champagne he doesn’t quite trust himself behind the wheel, so they’ve got a room booked at the hotel up the beach a bit for the night.

They talk and laugh as they walk down the beach together, hands clasped together between them. Jon’s red-and-white stick is tucked away in his back pocket, trusting Martin to lead him, steering him away from rocks or driftwood he might trip over.

The moon is nearly full, reflecting off the waves, light dancing in a way that almost brings something poetic to Martin’s mind (he’s getting there) and Martin can look and feel content in knowing that nothing sinister waits in the waves or the darkness.

“You know,” Martin says, “I always kind of assumed that out of all of us, Daisy and Basira would make it down the aisle first.”

“Really?” Jon asks. “What makes you say that?”

Martin shrugs. “They’re, I dunno, so _devoted_ to each other. It’s intense. Half-expected them to just elope the second things went back to normal.”

Jon’s quiet for a moment. “Hm.”

“Hm?”

“I just…” Jon makes a face. “I was aligned with an entity of complete knowledge, but sometimes it’s. Alarming, how poor my perception can be.”

“Oh? Like how?”

“I didn’t even know anything was going on between them,” Jon admits, “not until Basira offered us the safehouse.”

Martin can’t help it. He snorts.

Jon frowns. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s a bit cute, really. You didn’t notice I had a crush on you, either, so I guess this is pretty on-brand for you.”

“Hey,” Jon protests, “that’s just because it was _you_ and I couldn’t understand what you would ever possibly see in someone like _me_.”

Martin slows. “But you understand now, right?”

Jon matches Martin’s pace. He smiles, slow and shaky. “Yes. I-I do.”

“Good,” Martin says. His heart picks up. It’s just… everything feels so right. And here they are, talking about how much they mean to each other.

“Jon,” he says, a little unsteady.

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Jon huffs. “You just did, Martin.”

It’s such a _Jon_ response, Martins can’t help but roll his eyes even as he smiles. “I’m being serious.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Jon says.

“It’s fine,” Martin says, and he means it.

“What is it?” Jon asks softly.

Martin takes a steading breath. “When did you… Do you remember when you knew? That you, um.” He feels his voice fading, getting quieter, but he makes himself say it anyway. “That you love me.”

Jon stops in his tracks, the momentum of it tugging at Martin’s hand so he stops, too, turning to face Jon.

“Um,” he says, looking a bit like a deer in headlights. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “It’s, it’s a bit embarrassing.”

“Well, now you definitely have to tell me.”

“Don’t laugh,” Jon tells him.

“I won’t,” Martin promises.

Jon takes a steadying breath. “Do you remember when Jane Prentiss attacked the Archives?”

Martin bites his lip. “Yeah.” How could he ever forget?

“Right, silly question. Of course you remember. Hard to forget.” Jon purses his lips. “Well, do you remember when we were… We were in archive storage, and Sasha had—”

He stops abruptly. That was the last time either of them ever actually saw Sasha alive, not that either of them actually knew that.

“Yes,” Martin steps in to save him from that line of thought.

Jon nods. “Well, we were alone, and there were worms everywhere, and we were… We were just talking. _Really_ talking, not just keeping each other company over stale Cup Noodles in the break room.”

“Don’t knock the Cup Noodles, Jon. Those were… Well. Nice chats, anyway,” Martin says.

“ _You_ were nice to chat with. I imagine I wasn’t quite…” He waves his hand vaguely, brow furrowing.

“I liked talking to you, Jon,” Martin tells him earnestly.

And he _had_. He’d always thought of Jon as abrasive and rather mean until it had been just the two of them, alone after dark, Martin trapped in the Institute by memories of worms trying to crawl under his door, and Jon chronically poor at caring for himself, staying at work until well past midnight.

He’d been… softer, then. More genuine, almost protective. Not quite friendly in the terms Martin was familiar with the word, but trying his best, anyway.

Martin swallows, smiles shakily. “It always made me feel less alone.”

Jon squeezes his hand tight, and Martin squeezes back. “A-anyway,” Jon goes on, pushing through a wobble in his voice. “We were talking, and I asked why you stayed at the Institute, and you said… Well, I don’t remember exactly what you said, but it made me think—”

“You thought I was a ghost.”

Jon sighs. “I thought you were a ghost.”

“I remember that, yeah,” Martin tells him.

“Well… that’s it,” Jon admits. “You looked at me like I was insane, but in a charming way, and you were smiling like— I don’t know, I’d never seen you smile like that. And that’s— that’s when I knew I had… _feelings_ for you. I don’t know if that’s when I knew I was in love with you, but…” He ducks his head, self conscious as he always is about these things, but getting better at being brave about them anyway. “That’s when I _fell_ in love, anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” Martin asks softly.

“Yeah.”

Martin smiles. “That’s…” _Adorable, cute, endearing beyond words_. “Sweet.”

Jon hums noncommittally, but doesn’t argue. “What about you? W-when did you…” He punctuates that sentence with another vague hand movement.

“Oh, it was definitely the worms for me, too,” Martin says.

“Really?”

“Mhm,” Martin nods. “Different worm memory, though,” he tells him. “I’d been alone in my apartment for two weeks. I thought I was going to die, and no one was even going to notice. No one even came to check on me when they didn’t hear from me for _weeks_ —”

“Martin—”

“I know, I know. It was Prentiss, she had my phone, you all thought I was fine. But I didn’t know that _at the time_. Back then it just felt like, like I was so insignificant no one cared that I _disappeared_.”

This is harder than he anticipated. He has to pause for a moment, focus on breathing.

“But then I-I got free, and I was scared out of my mind and I couldn’t even think of anyone else to go to, so I came to the Institute, and you… You were kind to me. You were scared for me, and you didn’t dismiss me, and you let me take over your space and you stayed with me all night. It was like…”

He has to look away, if only for a second, or that open, near-shattered expression on Jon’s face might undo him.

“Suddenly I was _seen_ , and I was cared for. And you were so. So _focused_ on keeping me safe. You made all these demands to Elias, and you had that, that crease in your eyebrows all day. I mean, it was scary, and it was stressful, but I felt… I felt safe for the first time in weeks, and that was it for me.”

They stand there, under the light of the moon, waves crashing off to one side, the distant sounds of people lingering in a good night on the other, caught in a little world of their own.

Jon sucks in his lip, lets out a slow breath. “I— I know it won’t do any good now, but. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, honestly,” Martin tells him.

“What could you possibly have to be sorry for here?” Jon asks.

Martin shrugs. “I dunno. Wasting so much time, I guess. Maybe if I’d been braver, we could’ve… Been happier. Could’ve avoided all that mess with… Peter.”

“No. Hey, no. Don’t you _dare_ try and blame yourself for what that— that _man_ did to you,” Jon says vehemently. He gets like this, they talk about Peter, like just killing him in the Lonely wasn’t enough.

Martin shakes his head. This wasn’t where he meant for this conversation to go. “I don’t, Jon. Anyway, that’s not— that’s not the point.”

Jon huffs, bristling like he’s not entirely ready to let this go, but trying anyway for Martin’s sake. “What is the point then?”

“The point.” Martin slips his free hand into his pocket. “Right. Um. Kind of lost my train of thought, really. Um. I guess the point is, that I feel safe with you. Always have, and…”

He pulls a little box out of his pocket. He’s been carrying it around with him for a few weeks now, waiting for a moment that felt right, like this one does. He doesn’t go down on one knee or anything; it just doesn’t feel right, and anyway, he’s not interesting in spending hours getting sand out of his clothes later.

Instead he just holds Jon’s hand, presses the box into it. “I know you said you wanted this to be grand and romantic, but that just… Didn’t feel like us.”

He can see the moment Jon realizes what he’s holding. He breathes in sharply, hands stilling over soft velvet. “Martin—”

“Look, you’ve said it. We’ve both said it. The thing I love most about, about us, is that we can just… Be. We don’t have to put on some kind of show around each other. So I think, I think this should be the same.”

“Martin,” Jon breathes, almost frantic, “are you— are you—”

He breaks off, but Martin knows what he’s asking. “Yeah, Jon. I am. I want to spend my life with you.” He opens the box in Jon’s hands, lets him run his fingers over the metal band inside.

It’s nothing ostentatious, the ring; they’re still unemployed, and anyway, who cares what the ring looks like? It just matters what it means. “Marry me?”

Jon’s silent for a moment, utterly still, and then the next he’s throwing his arms around Martin’s neck, pulling him into a fierce, nearly rib-cracking hug, shoving his nose up against Martin’s neck.

Martin nearly stumbles, shifts his weight to keep supporting them both. He wraps his arms around Jon to return his embrace, pulling him close.

Jon’s hair smells like the shampoo they both use, and at this point his body in Martin’s arms is as familiar as his own. “So, is… that a yes?”

Jon makes a choked off noise against his neck, then he pulls back just far enough that he can pull Martin’s lips against his in a clumsy, desperate kiss.

“Yes,” Jon says, breathless but confident when he breaks the kiss off. “Yes. _Martin_ , obviously, _yes_.”

Martin laughs. “Oh, _obviously_?”

“Yes!” Jon says again. “I was the one— I said I— I was already planning on asking _you_!”

“And taking your sweet time about it.”

Jon shoves at Martin’s shoulder, with very little actual force behind it. “You—” He’s still holding the box in his hand, held tight and safe between his perfect fingers. “Are a menace sometimes. I love you.”

Martin stills Jon’s hands, pulls the ring out of the box. “I love you, too. Can I put this ring on you now?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jon breathes out.

So Martin takes those perfect fingers, and he slips the little silver band over his left ring finger, breath catching as he does it. “It fits,” he says.

“It fits,” Jon agrees, rubbing his thumb over his fingers.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” Martin can’t seem to help but ask, safe as they are in their little bubble.

Jon breathes out a quiet laugh. “I wasn’t even sure if I would ever make it out of the Archives alive.”

“You know, I didn’t quite think I ever would, either,” Martin admits.

“And now…”

“And now,” Martin agrees.

They pull each other into another hug, this one gentler, less urgent, Jon resting his ear above Martin’s heart, and Martin burying his nose in Jon’s hair.

If anyone had told Martin, even two years ago, and this is where he’d find himself, he never would’ve believed it. When you live through things like the Eye and the Lonely and the actual end of the world, it feels next to impossible to settle into any kind of _life_.

When you spend so much time with forces so much bigger than yourself, the small things, the things that really make a life a _life_ , start to feel irrelevant. What’s happiness against the end of the world? An easy sacrifice to make, at the time.

But then you sacrifice those things (Jon sacrifices a lot of things) and the the forces go away, and suddenly the life you never planned for is _right here_ expecting to just be lived.

And so here they are, learning to live it right beside each other.

Finally, finally, they let go, taking barely a half step back, lingering in each other’s space.

“C’mon,” Martin says, “the hotel’s just up a little way. It’s getting late.”

Jon hums contentedly. “Alright,” he says, “let’s go.”

Martin slips his hand into Jon’s, their fingers fitting together near-perfectly.

There are still scars left over from what they went through, some figurative, some very, very literal; the healing from that sort of trauma is something that might take a lifetime. But they’ve got a cottage they share together, people they care for who care for them, too, and as of just a few moments ago Jon Sims has agreed to be Martin’s husband.

The both of them are still going to be healing for a long time, but Martin knows he can handle it as long as they’ve got each other to lean on.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks 4 reading !!! really hope u all enjoyed. i'll probably be dead in like a day when s5 drops fr but. [i have tumblr](https://nogenders.tumblr.com/) if u wanna come say hi before i inevitably pass away :)
> 
> title comes from 'it's okay' by cavetown !


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